Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  “How about Cotton?” Sarah says.

  “Cotton, huh? I like that.” I really don’t, but I have to tread lightly. “Sometimes I think it’s nice to name a dog after a person. After someone you love or admire. Take Gracie, for instance. She was named after the most elegant woman who ever lived. Princess Grace Kelly was not only a movie star, but a classically beautiful, sophisticated woman and princess.”

  “How did she get to be a princess?” Sarah wants to know. Through the rearview mirror, I can see her eyes growing larger.

  “She married a prince, of course. The Prince of Monaco. She was my favorite movie star; I used to daydream that I was her. I would fantasize that I had blond hair and blue eyes and wore her elegant clothes and diamonds. Not to mention kissing all those gorgeous men in the movies.” This elicited a few chuckles from the girls. “Naming Gracie after her was quite apropos.”

  Issie says, “I think we should name him after Roberta.”

  “No Issie, Roberta is a girl’s name and we have a boy dog,” Sarah says. I can see her shake her head through my rearview mirror, like her little sister is the dumbest person on earth.

  “Actually girls,” I say, “there are plenty of people out there with androgynous names. Just look at all the Jordans or the Taylors of the world. Both boys and girls have that name. Alex, Sandy, Aubrey, Madison—there are a million of them.” Suddenly the most famous of all androgynous names pops in my mind. “I forgot about Alice Cooper, he’s the king of all them all!”

  “Who’s Alice Cooper?” Sarah asks.

  “A rock star from the seventies. He had a song called ‘School’s Out’ and on our last day at Jameson School, in our senior year, Mary Jule, Alice, Virgy, and I rigged up a sound system and blasted it all throughout the school. You should have seen us dancing in the halls in our Alice Cooper tight pants with black stars painted around our eyes. If we had done that any other day, we would have all been expelled.”

  “You were crazy, Mommy,” Sarah says.

  The more I think about naming this little dog Roberta, the better it sounds. “In the olden days people even called their boys Meredith,” I tell them. “My friend Karen Perrin had an uncle Meredith. He was the nicest man, always taking the time to talk with us and help Karen with her math homework. If his mother could name him Meredith, why can’t we call this precious dog Roberta?” The little man peers up at me with longing. “We can start a new trend. Maybe once we call him Roberta, other people will start naming their sons Roberta.”

  I look back at Sarah and she’s staring out the window pondering that thought. By now, she’s used to the whims of her wacky mommy.

  All this talk of Roberta’s name makes me miss my dear friend. If someone had told me the day I first stepped foot in Vermont that my little five-foot-tall, roly-poly housekeeper who wore plaid skirts with flowery tops would become my best friend I would have highly doubted it. Even better, she’s the type of person who would get a huge kick out of having a dog named after her, girl or boy. I think I’ll call her when I get home and tell her.

  Sarah looks over at the mutt and says, “Come here, Roberta.” Giving her a slight cock of the head, he prances to her lap and nestles into a spot, resting his head on the door’s armrest. Apparently it’s decided. Roberta it is.

  Chapter Nine

  When I flip on the radio, after I get back in the car from dropping off Issie at school, “Fire and Rain” pours out of the speakers. It’s so vivid—almost like James Taylor is on the morning show in the control room, singing directly into the mic. I can hear a guitar but the other instruments are missing, the ones that give the song its full rich sound. FM 99 is not known for playing acoustic versions of songs (Edward would never allow a song to be played that hadn’t originally reached the top ten on the Adult Contemporary Billboard chart), but even still, I’d swear it was James himself.

  “Thought I’d see you one more time again. Nah, nah, nah.” After the music fades, there’s clapping. Control room clapping! I nearly hit another mother exiting the preschool parking lot.

  “All right, all right. JT. That was awesome,” Johnny says. “It’s great to have you back.”

  “Thank you. Glad to be here.” That’s his voice. I’d know it anywhere. It really is James Taylor!

  “You’re in concert tonight at Mud Island,” Johnny says.

  “That’s right,” says JT.

  Okay, what in god’s name is going on? Why am I the last to know that Sweet Baby James himself is at FM 99 today—only a few feet away from my office? It’s only been two weeks since Liam White was in the studio and now we have an even bigger star. I truly am going to kill Johnny Dial this time. I look down at my outfit and consider turning back around and heading home. This dress has been hanging in my closet for five years. I’d have thrown it away a long time ago but it’s one of those outfits that can pass in a pinch, when everything else is dirty. It’s the kind that you’d never wear to something special, though—and this is better than something special. One glance at the clock tells me I better keep driving forward and accept the fact that I’m going to meet the James Taylor looking like I just left the Dress Barn.

  “You’ve played Memphis what, six or seven times, and every single time I see you, you seem to get better,” Johnny says. “Your voice is smoother now than it was the first time I saw you back in 1970, I think it was.”

  “The Sweet Baby James tour.”

  “That’s it. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen at the Mid-South Coliseum. I still remember you came out on the stage wearing a flannel shirt, sat down on a stool and opened the show with ‘Sweet Baby James.’”

  JT laughs, and it’s unmistakable.

  I remember that shirt! I was there. One of my very first concerts. I fumble through my purse and punch in the numbers to Alice’s cell. When the answering machine comes on I’m practically squealing. “Turn on FM 99. JT is in the control room talking about the Sweet Baby James concert at the coliseum when that man in the crowd screamed out ‘Walking Down a Country Road.’ Remember that, Alice? Oh my gosh. I have the coolest job in the world.” I push the end button and throw the phone back in my purse.

  What woman isn’t obsessed with James Taylor? Actually, with Alice and me, it’s not as much of an obsession as it is an infatuation. We’re enthralled with his love life. I mean, what man writes the kind of lyrics he does without the kind of magnetism, charm, and seduction that drives a woman crazy? Carly Simon was so lucky.

  “I’ll tell you what I wish I still had,” Johnny says. “That poster that came inside the album. It hung on my bedroom wall with thumbtacks in the corners for years.”

  “I’ve had many people tell me that.”

  I’m weaving in and out of the lanes, speeding down Union Avenue in rush-hour traffic, praying with every fiber of my being that I make it before he leaves. If I don’t get to meet him, maybe I’ll bump into him on the way out. Or at the very least catch a glimpse of him from ten feet away.

  When I finally pull up to the station, by the grace of God, he’s still talking to Johnny. I’m late, my normal five to ten, so I hightail it up to my office, not even pausing to wave to Jane on my way in. Through the window in front of the control room I can see the back of JT’s head. He’s wearing his signature newsboy cap! I am literally just five feet away from the one and only James Taylor.

  When the phone starts ringing, I reach down to grab it, never taking my gaze off the window across the hall from my office. I can see James scratching his neck. Now he’s putting a coffee cup to his lips. Now he’s leaning down and picking up his guitar. He’s about to play another song. I must think of an excuse to get inside that control room!

  “Hello,” I say into the phone, after it rings only once. My giddiness is hard to conceal.

  “Is this FM 99?” a man asks, puzzled.

  “Oh. Yes it is. I’m sorry, I was distracted. May I help you, please?”

  “Sure. This is Steve Conley. I’m the stage manager on James Taylor’s
crew. We’re down here at Mud Island loading in his gear and our tour itinerary says he’s not due into Memphis until four o’clock. We’re all a little confused down here and I can’t get JT’s road manager on the phone. Do you know if he’s by himself or if he has someone with him?”

  “Hold on a second, let me check.” This is it! My great excuse to mosey into the control room.

  “Actually, it looks like…,” I’m craning my neck across the hall to survey the inside of the control room as best as I can, “he’s alone. But why don’t I get your phone number and give Mr. Taylor a message to call you as soon as he comes off the air?”

  “That would be great.”

  I jot down the information and kiss the pink note in my hand. With my purse hanging over my shoulder I tear down the hall to the ladies’ room. Because I’m nervous, when I reach for my blush compact it slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. Just my luck. Now it’s in tiny pieces all over the black tile. With no other choice, I sweep up the peach tinted bits with the enclosed brush and use it anyway. This should teach me to come to work without taking the time to fix my makeup and style my hair. At the moment my hair’s in a ponytail, but I quickly tear out the rubber band and fluff it in the mirror. Once I finish brushing on my mascara I notice brownish black dots below my eyebrows. Ripping out a paper towel from the holder I hurriedly dampen it in the sink and wipe the residual fluid from my eyes. When I take one last look at myself in the mirror, it occurs to me I look like Goodwill Strawberry Shortcake, minus the striped leggings.

  On the way back down the hall I notice Edward’s door. It’s shut, thank goodness, and after bending down I can tell he’s not made it into the office yet. No light is peeking out from underneath the slit. Taking a deep breath, I turn the corner to the control room. Even though my stomach feels as though I’ve just stepped off the Zippin Pippin at the fairgrounds, I’ve already convinced myself to try and remain calm. Cool. Collected. I can do this. I can be in the same room with James Taylor and chat with him like a normal human being, nary a starstruck bone in my body.

  The on-air light fades. Mustering courage and charisma, with pink phone message in hand, I courageously push open the control room door with my shoulder, ready to hand the note over to JT himself. Johnny’s in his regular position working the board, Jack’s on the other side as usual, in front of his computer, and JT is … nowhere to be found. I glance behind me in the unfortunate instance that I may have just missed him.

  “Where’s JT?” There’s panic in my voice.

  They both glance at each other before bursting out laughing.

  “What? What?” My voice is climbing. “Did he leave down the back steps while I was in the bathroom?” I look behind me again and cover my face with my hands, exhaling loudly. “How could this have happened?”

  Jack reaches over, picks up James’s newsboy cap resting on the counter next to him and places it on his head. “Good morning, Leelee,” he says, in a perfect, and I mean spot-on, JT voice.

  All I can do is stare at Jack. I can’t utter a single sound. My face must look as forlorn and pitiful as Lucy’s did that day in Hollywood when Ricky wouldn’t let her meet John Wayne. Of course both guys, at this point, are falling out of their chairs from laughter, all at my expense.

  “It’s not funny,” I say, and inadvertently stomp my foot. “I believed y’all. I almost turned around and drove all the way home to change out of this tacky dress.” I look down and squeeze the fabric between my fingers. “But I was afraid I’d miss catching a glimpse of JT. And now I find out it’s all a joke?”

  Johnny stares at my dress. “That dress really is tacky.”

  Blood rushes to my face.

  “I’m just kidding you, girl.”

  “And how is it that I don’t know that you sing?” I say to Jack, throwing my arms in the air.

  “I don’t know how you don’t know,” he says, chuckling.

  “You sounded exactly like him.” Now it all makes sense. Jack can talk exactly like George Bush, Bill Clinton, and Ross Perot. He’s imitating them all the time on the radio. Of course he can talk and sing like James Taylor.

  “Why aren’t you rich and famous like, like that guy who does Richard Nixon and all the other presidents’ voices? You’re just as good.”

  In a dead ringer for the voice of Howard Cosell, Jack says, “Because Rich Little’s not stuck in Memphis, Tennessee, working for a boob like Edward Maxwell.”

  “I’m devastated. I was just sure you were JT.”

  “What do you need James Taylor for? Didn’t you see the note on your desk?” Johnny asks.

  I whip my head in his direction. “What note?”

  “I put a sealed envelope on your desk. Go read it. Just don’t let Edward see it.”

  “What’s it about? Am I in trouble?”

  Johnny giggles that giggle. “Go look at it.”

  When I get back to my desk, there’s a long FM 99 envelope with my name on the front, sealed shut. I’d been so eager to get inside the control room that I hadn’t even noticed it before. I tear it open and inside there’s a pink telephone message, folded over twice. Before reading it I glance over my shoulder. Unfolding the message, I notice it’s to me from Liam White. Liam White? He called at 8:00 A.M. and there’s a phone number. In the notes part, Johnny writes: “Wow, girl. Looks like you’ve got a suitor.”

  My heart zooms down into my black leather pumps. At the bottom of the note is another message from Johnny: “Make sure ‘you know who’ doesn’t hear you call him back. Be discreet about it and btw, I’ve copied down White’s number to sell to the National Enquirer.”

  On impulse and before I have time to consider the validity of the situation, I go running toward the control room and bump right into “you know who.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Edward asks, holding his briefcase, FM 99 silk bomber jacket slung over his shoulder. (It’s not even chilly outside.)

  “Oh nothing. I, I’m just checking one of the liner notes on the log. I might have written something down wrong.”

  He slightly opens the control room door and pops his head inside. “Good job with the JT bit, buddy,” he says to Jack, and then heads straight to his office and shuts the door.

  As I’m stepping inside the control room, the den of radio sin, reality grabs me by the tail and shakes me good and hard. All of a sudden it’s so obvious. Johnny Dial is lying! Now I’ve become a victim of his monkey business. Hmmmm.

  Instead of allowing his out-and-out Judas kiss to bamboozle me, I remember the new Leelee, the girl who shed her pushover exterior and stood up to Helga the Horrible in Vermont. With all the confidence of Jamie Lee Curtis daring to go gray in her late thirties, I push open the control room door and march inside. My tongue is pressed firmly on the inside of my cheek, my eyebrows are raised and my arms are crossed in front of my chest. “Okay,” I say, undaunted. “I admit it. You’ve gotten me once today. But it’s not going to happen a second time. Nope, I’m not falling for it.”

  “You’re pretty cool, girl. Got a celebrity calling ya,” Johnny licks his index finger and extends it my way. “Sssss,” he says. “You’re hot.”

  Uncrossing my arms, I say, “You are making that up and I don’t appreciate it.”

  “No, I’m not. I swear. Liam White called here looking for you.”

  I reach back and wind my hair into a knot. “Did he say what he wanted, O Master of the Mischief?”

  “No. He just wanted to talk to you. He called the hotline. Tyler the intern took the call.”

  “And then what? Let me guess”—I pop my finger toward Johnny—“Liam White told Tyler that he wants to marry me. Where is Tyler? Maybe I should get it straight from the horse’s mouth.” Knowing full well he’s nowhere close, I look all around the control room for effect.

  “We sent him downtown to Union and Second. He’s passing out morning team bumper stickers,” Jack says with a chuckle.

  “How convenient,” I say.

  “I
swear.” Johnny’s laughing, too.

  I shake my head and leer at him.

  “Okay. I can see how you might not trust me,” he says between chuckles.

  “You think?”

  “Here’s exactly what happened. White calls early this morning. He asks to speak to you. Tyler tells him you aren’t in yet so he leaves his number. I swore Tyler to secrecy. I told him he’d be fired if he breathes a word to anyone. Except Jack. He heard it, too.”

  Jack holds his hands up, palms out. “Your secret’s safe with me, kid.” Now he’s Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.

  “Hmmm. Johnny Dial I have to say, you are so good at taking a plausible situation and stroking it just enough to make it sound real.”

  “If you don’t believe me, call the number yourself. You’ll see,” Johnny says.

  I stare at the number a few moments. “If you’re kidding me…”

  “It’s the truth.” Johnny draws a cross on his heart. “Hope to die.”

  Instead of calling Liam White I rush into the ladies’ room to call the one friend who might support me if this story is real. Sure enough, Mary Jule starts screaming when I tell her. The believer in all things fairy tale (nothing has ever really gone wrong in Mary Jule’s life; both of her parents are still living and Al is completely devoted to her) tries to convince me that Johnny is indeed telling the truth. We talk a few minutes more before she persuades me to hang up from her and call Liam White right this minute.

  After pondering the risk of calling from my desk or the bathroom, I decide to put it off until lunchtime. Part of me is counting down the seconds and the other part of me is still dubious. And rightfully so. The more I think about it, the crazier I think I am for believing Johnny Dial. But when the clock strikes twelve noon, I race out to my car.

  Just as I’m about to punch in his number, Alice’s name comes up on my cell phone. When I answer she screams into my ear. “DO NOT CALL LIAM WHITE BACK.”